


It Takes a Week to Form an Ulcer

by gluecklich



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: AU, Comedy, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, couples therapy, john is a therapist, rodney is terrible at relationships, that owns a truck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:57:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3408026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gluecklich/pseuds/gluecklich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney McKay has never been good with relationships, so when his current 'significant other' Katie Brown forces him into Couples Therapy he thinks things can't get much worse - until he meets his therapist: Dr. John Sheppard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Takes a Week to Form an Ulcer

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written on LiveJournal in 2007 under the name paw_tracks/paperbinned. I've gone back through it to clear up any missed typos and the like, but it's mostly untouched. Also, at the time there was a show on Lifetime called "Next Door with Katie Brown," and it was indeed about plants. :)

Couples Therapy. It’s a phrase that sets men’s teeth on edge, a phrase that has them reaching for the nearest suitcase (or duffle bag) and not even bothering to lovingly wrap their knickknacks before they head for the door. It was a phrase that had Rodney choking on his rack of lamb at Gordon’s Grille the Thursday before last.

“Therapy?” he’d wheezed, fingers slipping around his glass as he tried to bring it to his mouth without physically inhaling the water. Katie was little help, dabbing at his shirt like he was a trauma patient who’d just been pulled from some biological spill - she wasn’t even meeting his eyes.

“I just,” she sighed, folding up her hands defensively, “I think if we want this relationship to go somewhere we’re going to need to _work_ at it.”

The word _relationship_ caused Rodney to relapse, the Maitre d' rushing over to the table to see if he needed assistance. Rodney couldn’t even muster the annoyance to wave him off, instead sitting slumped in his seat and blinking widely at the woman across from him.

Twenty minutes prior to this outburst she had been completely content with their mutual agreement of sex and companionable silence. It had been working out great - at least Rodney had thought so. 

“Rodney,” she tried, finally meeting his eyes, “ _please._ ”

\----

The chairs in the psychiatry office are an awkward combination of wicker and felt, and Rodney can feel his skin recoiling at the touch of it. Fleetingly he feels a pang for the metal fold-out chairs at work. They aren’t anymore comfortable, but at least on those his ass falls asleep and eliminates the pain. Here he can’t seem to find any hospitable position, shifting indecisively as he tries to fill out the starred information on the chart the receptionist had given him.

“Stop fidgeting,” Katie is in a tweed suit, pencil-thin skirt hugging her curves.

“I’m not fidgeting,” he grumbles in a hoarse whisper, eyeing the other couples in the office with intense disdain. The fact that he was even here was humiliating, let alone the fact that Katie had forced him into a sports coat, one that itched and pulled around his elbows. “Is it hot in here?”

“You’re overreacting,” she hisses, cheeks flaming red. The old couple across from them smiles accommodatingly and Rodney gives them a jerky nod, his own cheeks flushing pink in response.

Katie had been acting off since they’d set out that morning, clicking her teeth in that absurdly annoying way she did when she felt put-upon. _This was your idea_ , Rodney thinks scathingly, giving up on the chart and grabbing for some of the spare magazines spread across the coffee table beside him. He ends up with _Popular Science_ , muttering his way through most of the articles and writing corrections and insults into the margins with a pen he’d looted from Katie’s purse.

“Dr. McKay, Dr. Brown?” The receptionist is smiling plastically, hands motioning for them to follow her, “Dr. Sheppard will see you now.”

 _Dr. Sheppard_ , Rodney snorts like he’s offended by the implication. Therapists were as good as voodoo priests and witch doctors - never mind the fact that Rodney regularly saw a shrink (that was a completely different relationship though, one he’d devoted years to facilitating). 

The office is spacious, couches lush and covered in leather. Rodney tamps down the urge to run his fingers over the shelves, telling himself that the mahogany wood is only there to compensate for whatever this man is lacking.

When Rodney finally catches sight of him he decides that it can’t be much. 

“Dr. McKay. Dr. Brown.” The man’s teeth are impeccable, pearly white against his perfectly curved lips - Rodney hates him immediately. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

“Thank you so much for meeting us on such short notice,” Katie says, taking a seat, “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.”

 _We?_ Rodney thinks, _short notice?_ Was their relationship in such dire condition that they needed immediate attention? _Don’t be ridiculous, this is just a consultation._ Rodney sits down in the chair next to her stiffly, mouth slanted. There’s a heavy feeling in the back of his throat, something thick that he can’t shake.

“Not a problem,” Sheppard says, sitting down behind his own desk with ease, body curving with the sort of languid contentment Rodney could never hope to achieve, “And call me John.” Katie nods appropriately and Rodney bites his tongue to keep from mimicking like a four-year-old. “So,” it takes Rodney a moment to realize that Sheppard has their charts, skimming them lightly for information, “It says here you both work at the Air Force Flight Test Center.” 

From the raised eyebrow Rodney can tell that Sheppard is well aware of what that means. He folds his arms across his chest, “Yes,” he says, tone clipped. 

“Astrophysics and Botany, I’m sure working for a facility like that eats up a lot of your time.”

Rodney isn’t entirely sure what Katie has written on her own chart, but he can garner from Sheppard’s line of questioning and Katie’s stiff posture (not to mention a lot of one-sided conversations he probably should have paid attention to) that it has to do with the hours he keeps. “Yes,” he says again, “it can.”

“The two of you don’t keep similar hours?” Bingo.

“No,” Katie supplies and Sheppard nods, “I’ve talked to Rodney about changing his schedule, but he never seems willing.”

“I don’t have a set schedule,” Rodney grouses, like it should be obvious to both of them that someone of his caliber is working indefinitely, even now he’s computing - figuring out equations and internalizing their outputs. The fact that he was even being asked these questions was irritating. Sheppard - and Katie especially - already had set ideas on what the “problem” in regards to their relationship was.

“Do you think that -” 

“Look,” Rodney snaps, “Dr. Sheppard, we all know why we’re here,” he makes a broad hand gesture, “Katie knew what my job was like when we first -” he struggles for wording, “- established our relationship. The fact that she’s suddenly taken offense to it is frankly -” 

“Unwarranted?” Sheppard supplies.

Rodney grinds down on the word ‘ _Yes,_ ’ it tastes bitter even to his own tongue. “They’re not unwarranted,” he says, emphasis implying all he needs it to, “It’s just - I don’t see why we need help to discuss it.”

Sheppard takes it in stride, shifting his focus to Katie who’s begun to wring her hands nervously. “Katie?” he asks, tone indicating that Rodney isn’t to interrupt.

“I’ve tried,” she says, “but every time I bring it up he becomes offended - like, like our relationship isn’t as important as his work.”

“ _It’s not,_ ” Rodney says without thinking, wincing even as the words leave his mouth. Well, that was an ugly color on him.

Katie stares at him blankly, eyes gathering water. “I,” she starts, words getting caught up in her throat. John looks horribly sympathetic, brows drawn down and concern etched into every crevice of his body. It’s enough to make Rodney feel contrite.

“Katie,” he shifts awkwardly, “It’s not that _you_ aren’t - it’s - you mean something to me.” He suddenly hates the English language, wishing for the simplicity of numbers, of variables. He never did too well when it came to conveying feeling, the fact that he was even here with her now should say something, but she didn’t see it that way, she never would.

“I see,” Katie says, voice even, “I mean something to you.” Her mouth is tight and Rodney can see the tension in her face as she struggles to stay composed. John isn’t doing much, just sitting behind his desk and staring. He was supposed to be doing something, wasn’t he? Smoothing rough edges, healing psychological wounds, joining hands with the romantically inept and leading them into a world of appropriate bonding.

Rodney feels something turn over in his stomach as he realizes he has absolutely nothing to say.

Thankfully, John steps in, “Okay,” he says, “That’s good. We can move on from here.” Katie is still stiff, hands fisting her skirt in agitation.

Rodney slouches down in his own chair, rumpled and defeated. 

\----

They schedule another appointment for the following Tuesday, Katie sidestepping him easily as soon as the date is set. Rodney is left alone to shovel bills from his wallet to a very amused receptionist. From the atmosphere in the waiting area, he assesses that their situation is far from new.

He feels mortified, stomping from the room with the grace of a large aquatic mammal. He purposely knocks over the receptionist’s pens in spite and steps on a few of them with little intention of picking them up. _Idiot,/_ he thinks. What did these people know about his life? They had no idea about the complexity of his work, the speed at which an experiment could go wrong if the incorrect input was fed to the system. Months of work could spark out in a matter of seconds. You couldn’t waste time with useless distractions. It wasn’t his fault relationships fell to the wayside.

When he gets outside he tugs off his jacket, Nevada heat already searing his skin. He can’t see Katie, or his car. 

“Problems?” Rodney twists in place, surprised to find Dr. Sheppard behind him. The guy doesn’t even look like a doctor with his stylized hair and - are those flip-flops?

“No,” he says, smoothing down his own clothes self-consciously. 

“She took your car,” John says, looking bemused. Rodney feels color rising to his cheeks for the umpteenth time that day.

“How would you -” John lifts a brow, “Okay, yes,” he snaps, “she took my car.” When Sheppard doesn’t move he becomes agitated, “Shouldn’t you be in your office _ruining lives_?”

John shrugs, “I’m off early.”

Rodney stares at him, lips twitching before he finally turns his back and hopes with enough concentration he can will the man away. After a minute he loses patience, “ _What?_ ” 

John grins, “You want a ride?”

The question throws Rodney, “What?”

“A ride,” John says again, this time with hand motions. Rodney repeats the question mentally, and John begins to look uncomfortable, “I figured it was better than taking the bus,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck, “but if you -”

“Okay,” Rodney says.

“Good,” the corner of John’s mouth tugs up and he turns to head towards the other side of the parking lot.

“Is this normal for you?” Rodney asks, squinting. The sun is blinding and he finds himself zeroing in on Sheppard’s hips to direct him.

“Is what normal?” Sheppard says over his shoulder. 

“Taking patients home.” The sidewalk outside the building is cracked, weeds pulling up from the ground with a startling efficiency. Rodney finds himself getting caught up on the dents, the shift of Sheppard’s backside only adding to his stilted equilibrium.

“More normal than you’d think,” Sheppard says. His grin is warm, offered with the same loose nature his body seems to breathe. It makes Rodney feel awkward and bulky.

“I appreciate the charity,” Rodney says dryly, feeling slightly miffed that he’s just one more male in a long line of hapless men Sheppard has had to save from public transportation.

“Here,” John says, standing next to a run-down truck.

“This is your car?” It looks entirely out of place in the parking lot, dulled paint made all the more noticeable by the sleek Buick beside it. It’s surprisingly right for Sheppard.

“Yep,” John says, keying open his own door before leaning across the seat to get at Rodney’s. The leather interior is slightly worn, soft to the touch. Rodney slides in easily, shuffling himself into position as John starts the engine.

“So,” John’s smiling again, “where do you live?”

\----

The car ride is interesting to say the least, Rodney seemingly unable to keep his mouth shut and John content to insert questions when there’s a lull, and not just any questions - intelligent questions, ones that require thought and a basic knowledge of the subject at hand.

“What do you mean Batman’s not a superhero?” 

“He has no super powers,” John says, like Batman is somehow inadequate in the “super-world” because he can’t shoot lasers from his crotch or fuck a woman in six seconds flat.

“He’s part of the Justice League!” Rodney says, eyes wide and incredulous.

“So’s Green Lantern and he’s not a superhero either.”

“Who cares about the Green Lantern!” Rodney is now officially amazed, blown away by Sheppard’s complete disregard for Batman’s (devastating) capabilities. The fact that Batman does not fall into the genetically capable category and still manages to be incredible should only add to his appeal. “Batman’s a genius.”

“I never said he wasn’t,” John’s a fraction from rolling his eyes, “I just said he wasn’t a superhero.”

“Oh right,” Rodney says, crossing his arms, “and I suppose you think Superman is great.”

John’s lips pull down, “What’s wrong with Superman?”

“Oh my god, pull over the car right now.” This time John does roll his eyes, purposely changing lanes and child-locking the doors as Rodney waves his arms about. “You’re a Superman fan. The guy flies around in spandex with a big red cape.”

“Batman has a cape,” John has now developed a full pout, the affects of which are completely lost to Rodney as he barrels on.

“Batman’s cape is black and foreboding,” he says, “not cherry red and superfluous.”

“Superman’s cape is aerodynamic! The amount of friction a person would encounter going at that velocity through the atmosphere is monumental; the cape shields anyone he has with him.”

“Great, so the cape makes sure that Lois Lane makes it back to the Daily Planet with her hair in place - are you lecturing me on Fluid Dynamics?”

“I - what?”

Rodney looks completely stalled, face mirroring John’s confusion, “Fluid Dynamics.” He repeats, “With the cape and the -” here he makes a motion meant to signify wind. It looks more like a wave, but John gets his point.

“Oh.”

“I don’t even know why I’m asking, it’s not like you have the first idea what -”

“It’s the study of fluids in motion, McKay. I think most first graders could grasp the concept, though not all of them could link it up with continuum mechanics or write out the Navier-Stokes equation for you.”

Rodney’s face contorts back into a mask of confusion, a look he’s finding ever present in the company of Sheppard, “Yes, well,” he licks his lips, “I didn’t think -”

“Don’t worry, McKay. I picked up a minor in aeronautics. The basic physics class or two is pretty par for the course.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Rodney says, “are you telling me you were able to minor in aeronautics and you still chose to become a _couples therapist?_ ” He watches in amazement as John shrugs. 

“Wasn’t my first choice,” he says, “but I like people.”

“God, you are insane.” John grins and laughs as Rodney shifts into an immediate barrage of questions, testing the bounds of John’s knowledge for holes.

They’ve slipped into a discussion on dark matter by the time they reach Rodney’s condo. A little four room complex with white washed stone, bright against the Nevada backdrop. “This it?” John asks, as he slows the car to a stop.

“What? Oh, yes, yes this is it.” Rodney falters, he hadn’t been paying attention to the scenery, too caught up in prodding John for information. Now that they’re here he suddenly feels awkward again. He fumbles with his jacket, internally debating whether or not to invite Sheppard inside. He wants to, but he’s unsure of the decorum for these types of things, is it polite to invite John inside after he drove him home, or is he supposed to just get out of the car and go on with his life? Was there a particular etiquette one needed to follow when it was their therapist? “Would you like to come inside?” he finally asks, voice as confident as he can manage.

John blinks at him, surprise etching across his features before it slips away, “S’probably not a good idea,” he says, “seeing as how I’m supposed to be counseling both you and your girlfriend. You can’t play favorites.”

He winks and Rodney feels his cheeks color, “Right,” he says, “Of course.” trying haplessly for the door handle only to realize it’s not where it should be. He feels a surge of panic twitch through his system. Door handle, he thinks, where is the -

“Here.” John leans across him, and Rodney can swear he feels the heat of his body. It’s completely irrational and he plans to berate himself for it later. Sheppard smells like sweat and summer heat, something sweet against Rodney’s tongue. Rodney bites his lip, sucking in a breath and pressing back into the seat to give John as much room as possible. The door clicks open in a rush of air and Rodney shivers.

“Th-thank you.” He slips from the vehicle gracelessly, turning to give John a small wave before walking stiffly to his door. He can hear the truck start up again, rumble back across the pavement before it moves off. Rodney turns to watch it disappear, keys dangling from his fingers. He’s surprised to feel disappointed. Sighing, he turns to open the door and kick Ringo, his tabby, back into the confines of the house.

“No, Ringo. Bad.” The cat weaves between his legs, tail flicking impatiently as Rodney ignores him to get at the answering machine. The red light is blinking incessantly - three new messages - he sighs - first message, Tuesday two p.m. It’s Zelenka, voice breathing heavy syllables into the speakers as he informs Rodney of a glitch in the programs they’ve been running at work. Rodney snorts; he’d told Zelenka his equations were wrong. They’d been running simulations for the past month, feeding lines of data into the system one by one, making sure that each and every variable was properly placed. It was in the last line that they’d found problems. Something small and inconspicuous that had them all cocooned in the labs till the early hours of morning. Rodney would probably have been there right now if it weren’t for the therapy appointment.

He erases the message and directs Ringo to the kitchen, moving the cat with his feet as it trips over him meowing. “Yes, food,” he tells it, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He figures he’ll take an hour, eat, shower and then head in to work to tell everyone they’re morons and should seriously consider sparing society by not procreating.

\----

He’s out of the shower in ten minutes, brain beating out equations at an alarming rate. Ringo has taken up residence in the middle of his bed, following him with sleepy eyes as he loops between his room and home office, littering the hallway with loose papers and abandoned socks. There’s already ink smeared up the expanse of his arm, blue stripe tipping off by his elbow. He crams a line of numbers into the space between his thumb and pinky, scribbling in tiny notations where he can. He pulls on socks one handed, other arm free to wave about as he tries to maintain balance. It’s an act he’s well acquainted with.

As soon as he manages to get his pants up and round his ankles he grabs for a t-shirt and trips down the stairs. It isn’t until he’s outside in the driveway in bare sock clad feet that he remembers he has no means to get to work. 

“Yes, well then,” he’d forgotten that Katie had taken his car, that Sheppard had driven him home. _Car,_ he thinks, _need car._

A scan of the area produces one of his neighbors, currently out trimming her azaleas while her Mazda collects heat in the driveway. Rodney stares at it, weighing the likelihood of her letting him borrow it, especially since he can’t remember her name. As soon as she catches sight of him she glares, gathering up her shears and stomping inside. Rodney snorts, illiterate cow. If what’s-her-face wasn’t going to play ball than it was likely the rest of his neighbors weren’t going to be much help either.

So Rodney had missed a few neighborhood meetings, forgotten to check a few pamphlets, or to sign one of the numerous petitions that had been stuffed through his mail slot. It wasn’t his fault that the corporation funding their condo symposium wanted to pull the guarantee on the lots behind their complex and fill the fields with pavement - either way Rodney was still going to spend the better half of the summer hacking up mucus from the back of his throat. Besides, he had far more important and pressing things to do then get plastered and find a cause.

He calls Radek and meets him in the driveway a half an hour later.

“You know I hate you.”

Rodney rolls his eyes, “You wouldn’t be here if you hated me.”

“On contrary,” Radek says, shifting the car into gear, “I am here because you have no soul and I know what you would do to my plants.” 

The plants in question are monkshood and orange agoseris and Rodney is almost 93% positive that they hate him. _Weeds,_ he hisses every time he passes, clutching his pens. They eat pens - and sandwiches, and on the rare occasion important data feeds. Rodney has taken to giving Radek’s desk a wide girth, sometimes pouring Kavanagh’s coffee into their pots when he has the proper equipment - read: gloves and safety goggles. The things produce enough spores to clog all of his internal arteries. 

“I wouldn’t kill your plants,” Rodney says flippantly, buckling his seat belt, “I’m already on Mother Nature’s shit list.”

“Is not inconvenient you are dating botanist then?” Rodney’s face pulls down, arms folding across his chest defensively. Radek continues on oblivious, “Perhaps this is why you two do not move in together?”

“Thank you Maury Povich, but no.”

“Who is Maury Povi -”

“Look, the fact that Katie and I don’t live together is hardly an indication of -” here Rodney waves his hands, broad gestures meant to signify ‘relationship’ and ‘troubles.’ Radek blinks at him behind his glasses.

“Did you not have therapy appointment today?”

Rodney manages to choke out a few choice words before Radek nods and merges onto the highway.

\----

There’s something comforting in the redundancy of running simulations, knowing that the equations you input are going to have a set sum, something definite and unchanging. The fact that said equations are being used to test the bounds of wormhole physics, utilizing hypothetical information and unfound theories just keeps it interesting.

“I believe it was the comma in third line down that caused problem.”

Rodney holds out a hand for the report, pulling it into his immediate vicinity as soon as the paper hits the pads of his fingers. He’s currently etching thick numerals into a pad of tracing paper, inking superlatives like ‘least’ and ‘smallest’ around a diagram of a Schwarzschild wormhole with a bent biro.

“Mmm,” he says, barely glancing at the output data.

“I believe also, the two preceding lines of data need to be reversed.” At this remark Rodney looks up, 

“What?”

Radek sighs, “The current order is causing the experiment to overload, if we -”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rodney says, snapping his fingers and turning back towards his desk, “just give me the last output data.”

“I have already -”

“What?”

“I said, I have already given you the data.” Radek points and Rodney follows the curve of his finger to the thick wad of papers hanging off the side of his desk.

“Yes, right.” He tugs them into his direct line of sight and makes short work of the new notations, threading his own ideas into the margins and crossing out all the edits he finds unnecessary or just plain stupid. “Here,” he says, holding out the pack to Zelenka, “and make Kusanagi run the simulation this time.” 

Zelenka mutters something in Czech, voice rumbling as he tugs the papers from Rodney’s grasp and makes his way across the lab. They’ve been there for four hours already, pressed between walls of cold steel and loud machinery. Rodney finds it hard to sleep at night without the whirring sound. Napping upright on a lab table always seemed to come more naturally to him than a pliant mattress and sixteen pillows. His own mattress is prescription and hard as a rock, which thinking on it, is probably why Rodney doesn’t mind the floor.

It’s a few minutes before he notices his cell phone blinking, red light hard to see under layers of carbon copy. He fishes it out from the debris on his desk, frowning immediately when the digital lettering reads 4 Missed Calls. Flipping the phone open, he can almost predict the name before he sees it: _KATIE_. Besides the fact that he gets terrible reception in the lab, Rodney can think of numerous people he’d rather talk to than his - well, her. 

As much as he’d love to feign ignorance, however, he’s learned enough to know that the longer he goes without returning her calls, the worse it’s going to be for him the next time they speak - and he doesn’t really need her coming up with any more reasons to convince Sheppard he’s a dick. He hits ‘ _ENTER_ ’ to return the call, waging that an attempt with possible interference is better than no attempt at all. It’s only slightly surprising when he gets Katie’s voicemail in return. He leaves a nondescript message and tosses the phone back across his desk.

Massaging the area between his brows, Rodney picks up the nearest pen and goes back to his tracing paper. When Radek returns with new results 15 minutes later Rodney has gotten absolutely nothing done.

“If Katie is camel, who is that?”

Rodney jumps at the sound of his voice, hand smearing ink across his latest concoction. Radek is hovering in his peripheral, leaning over Rodney’s back to get a look at the doodle shoved into a corner under the Σ in Ampere’s Law. Katie is indeed a camel, with at least six humps.

“That’s, uh, that’s our therapist.” Rodney is unsure how Sheppard ended up there, holding a riding crop and wearing a tilted safari hat.

“He tames camels?” Radek asks, not even twitching and Rodney suddenly wishes for one of the interior valves in the main processor to explode.

“Oh yes, it’s one of his hobbies. He tames camels between base jumping and weaving Navajo baskets with his _teeth._ ” Rodney sneers, disgusted at himself for drawing the doodle on a non-expendable sheet of data. Zelenka for the most part manages to keep his remarks to a minimum, walking away with an offhanded comment about Katie’s apparent ability to retain water.

Rodney crumples up the data sheet anyway.

\----

It takes Katie a day and a half to return his car, abandoning it to the night guards in underground parking; the tank is empty. Rodney chalks it off as retribution paid in full, but continues to avoid all her usual haunts when he’s at work. His sudden increase in lab time sets all of his subordinates on edge and it isn’t long before Zelenka pushes him from the facility, Grodin holding Kavanagh down as Rodney throws expletives in his general direction. “Sleep, Rodney,” Radek says, and for once Rodney doesn’t argue.

The sun’s only been up a few hours, but Rodney’s gone without a proper night’s rest for two days. His system is still wired, operating on automatic as exhaustion breeds beneath his skin. He opts to pull into the nearest café and get a cup (or four) of coffee before he falls asleep at the wheel. It’s an in-between hour so the place is relatively quiet, a few people loitering as the shift changes and the new staff re-stocks swizzle sticks before the afternoon rush.

He spots a familiar head of dark hair and sits down before he can think about it, quelling his subconscious protests of ‘ _BAD IDEA_ ’ with tired, company, caffeine, tired, Batman. Said head of hair looks up, surprised. “You probably shouldn’t ask me any questions until I get a coffee,” Rodney says, watching Sheppard grin and nod, contentedly going back to his newspaper. Rodney lets his eyes slip shut, tilting his head back to rest upon the couch edge. He can hear Sheppard turn pages as his drifts off.

When he wakes up Sheppard is still there, hovering in his space and pressing a large mug of coffee into his fingers. “How long have I -”

“About 20 minutes,” he says, “rough night?”

“If by rough you mean hours spent in a heaving basin of would-be nepotism and more-likely-than-not contagious stupidity, then yes.” Rodney blows across the top of the mug, barely containing a moan as the first rush of liquid slides down his throat. “What?” he says, noting Sheppard’s stare.

Sheppard straightens, shifting in his seat. “Uh, nothing. Good?”

“Mmm,” Rodney replies, warming his fingers around the rim. In some distant part of his consciousness he’s aware that he’s making inappropriate noises, but in the face of real coffee - not the cheap instant the lab had had to resort to pandering off the military reps on base - he didn’t think he could be held liable. “ _God,_ ” he let’s out an elongated sigh, “this is imported, isn’t it?”

“Sumatran,” John says, eyes flickering to Rodney’s mouth and back, “It’s Indonesian.”

Rodney garbles appreciatively, burrowing deeper into his chair and mouthing what’s left of the substance in his cup. One of the staffers eyes him bemusedly as she passes, pausing to give John an even longer once over. He gives her a polite half-smile, tipping back his own coffee mug to down the rest.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Rodney asks, voice heavy and sleep tinged.

“Next appointment’s not till one,” John says.

“Do you ever work?”

“Do you ever not?” John’s splayed in the couch across from him, half-sprawled with his legs scuffing the coffee table legs. Rodney eyes him warily, his own body hollowing out an easy shape in the café’s illustrious couches. “Thought so,” John says when Rodney breaks eye contact.

“I’m not working _now_ ,” Rodney says, the statement’s self-evident, but he feels the overpowering need to defend his non-existent social life. “Besides,” he says, as John’s brows drifts towards his hairline, “a good work ethic is nothing to be ashamed of.”

John decides to let it go, giving Rodney a look that makes him think he’s filing this information away for later. Why did he sit down with his couple’s therapist again? _Sleep deprivation_ , Rodney thinks, _can’t be held responsible_. He’s too comfortable now to move anyway.

“So, I’m guessing you got your car back?”

“Yes,” Rodney says, deciding to leave out the fact that the tank had been empty and there was still an odd smell drifting from the vicinity of the trunk. He’d checked, but found no dead animals and he didn’t really want to investigate it further.

“You know,” John says, “I had an ex-girlfriend steal my car once.”

“What?”

“She stole my -”

“No, no, no,” Rodney says, “you have an ex-girlfriend?”

John pauses, “Yes,” he says, eyeing Rodney carefully, “lots of people have ex-girlfriends. Some - even have ex-boyfriends.” Rodney notes the boyfriend remark but remains unmoved.

“Thank you for that startling insight, I’ll be sure to mark it down in case I have a sudden relapse in societal terminology.” he says dryly, “You’re supposed to be a relationship expert, you shouldn’t have exes.”

John looks like he wants to comment on the relationship expert part, but is unsure of where it’d lead, “I’d think you’d want advice from someone with experience.” 

“And exactly how much experience do you have?”

John purses his lips, “Lots.”

“Great, so I’m getting relationship advice from the male equivalent of Liza with a ‘Z’” 

“I don’t know that many show tunes.” John says, looking up as the afternoon rush begins to load. The sudden swarm doesn’t last more than five minutes, frazzled customers in suits teetering around each other in some unnatural dance; all anxious to get their coffee and to do so without touching each other. Rodney resists the urge to stick out a foot to trip one of them.

“So this ex-girlfriend that stole your car?”

“I reported it missing and the cops picked her up.” John’s eyes dance mischievously, and Rodney can’t help but smile.

“You two must still be close.”

\----

Rodney wakes the next morning to the incessant buzz of his alarm clock and an under-stocked fridge. He’d ended up spending an inordinate amount of time in the coffee shop with Sheppard the day before, trading horrible relationship stories and stealing tiny packets of creamer. In the laws that govern normal society, making friends with one’s therapist is probably considered inappropriate; Rodney is sure Katie wouldn’t approve. He simply hasn’t mustered up the energy to care. He decides to purposely ignore the phone lines, screening any call that comes in from the comfort of his couch where he’s shoveling down what’s left in the Count Chocula cereal box.

By mid-day he’s spent most of his time tottering around the condo, plucking stray articles of clothing from behind couches and between cushions, throwing away magazines and Thai food cartons. He’s even cleaned out his fridge. He feels determined not to think about Katie or Sheppard, or the acidic feeling that’s been curdling his system since Tuesday. At a quarter to three he decides to head to the fresh market in Henderson to restock his fridge.

The market is a local joint on the outskirts of Vegas and depending on the time of day it’s home to an astounding array of cheap jewelry and spandex, or geriatric footwear. Rodney hopes that once the health food craze dies down he’ll be left alone with the elderly and by that time most of them will be dead. When he arrives there’s a miniature chalkboard two feet from the store’s entrance declaring a new shipment of Brillat-Savarin and Rodney takes this as a sign that god has yet to abandon him. He makes a mental note to buy dates for accompaniment and heads towards the seafood section. He’s had a Halibut craving for days, one he’s yet to quell thanks to overtime in the lab and - other things. Burgess, the head of fish and poultry, knows him by name and he smiles handsomely as Rodney makes his way over. He’s got a rough cut and square jaw, voice hard like it cuts across the back of his throat when he speaks.

“Lo, Dr. McKay,” he tilts his head in greeting as Rodney stops, wiping his hands over his apron.

“Burgess,” Rodney replies, mood lifting as he catches sight of the fresh cuts in the display window. “How’s the Halibut today?”

“Prime, Dr. McKay, prime.” He’s already moving to pluck Rodney’s customary fillet from the case, wrapping it tightly in layers of wax and brown paper. “Will that be all for you?”

“Yes, thank you,” Rodney chirps happily, cheeks round. 

The next stop is the bakery for chocolate sourdough bread. It’s one of Rodney’s favorite addictions, the only problem being that he manages to eat at least 1/3 of the loaf on his way to the checkout (which is why he usually gets two). As soon as he turns into the aisle, however, he catches a glimpse of dark hair and low-slung jeans. Apparently god had abandoned him after all.

 _Oh, come on_. He’d seen Sheppard enough for that week, any more coincidental run-ins and this was going to look really, really bad. Rodney tries to back out, stalled by an older woman who pulls her cart up behind him and tuts loudly. Sheppard looks up at that, mouth quirking as Rodney resists the urge to roll his eyes and sigh deeply.

“Young man, if you would please make up your mind.” Rodney is halfway to turning around and telling her where to shove it when Sheppard, ever the chivalrous knight, steps over and pushes Rodney’s cart toward the aisle wall with his hip. “Thank you,” the woman says pointedly, glaring darkly at Rodney before waddling off.

“It’s like a compulsion with you, isn’t it?”

“Nah,” Sheppard says, holding up two fingers, “I was just a boy scout. On my honor, I will do my -”

“Stop,” Rodney says, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes, “stop right now,” but he’s grinning, refusing to meet Sheppard’s eyes as he cocks a hip against Rodney’s cart and looks over its contents. Rodney mentally un-stocks and restocks it, trying to weed out anything potentially humiliating for Sheppard to happen upon.

“You know, this stalking thing is kind of creepy.”

Rodney snorts, “Please, like I’d even have the time to stalk you.”

“So, if you cleared your schedule we’d be bumping into each other twice a day instead of once?”

“What? No.” Sheppard’s eyes are dancing and Rodney wants to shove at him, punch him in the shoulder, or do something equally as childish in the spirit of brotherhood. He feels embarrassed and he doesn’t know why. “Why am I the stalker anyways? It’s completely logical that someone in my position of personal achievement would be followed and - and watched from afar.”

Sheppard doesn’t look like he’s buying it, shrugging loosely, “Because I’m the therapist. In the movies the therapist always gets stalked.” Rodney watches the curve of his mouth as he says it, knows he’s teasing by the badly suppressed grin. It causes something in his stomach to twitch and turn over, his palms growing moist as Sheppard continues to laze about in his personal space. He nudges Sheppard with his cart, gets him to move so he can move. So he can occupy his hands and mind with something else.

“Yes, well, it’s usually the therapist’s fault.”

\----

Rodney blames John again when Katie finds him the next morning. She’s standing near the entrance to the labs when he comes into work, eyes strained like she’s trying to mask whatever emotions she’s currently feeling. “Rodney,” she says, tone tight and caught somewhere around her nasal passages.

“Katie, you look well.”

“We need to talk.”

So much for pleasantries, “Sure,” he holds out a hand for her to lead the way and she backs down the hall into a nearby office. “Well,” he starts, following her into the empty room, rubbing his thumb across his middle fingers. It’s a nervous habit he can’t seem to break. He’s got a good idea where this conversation is headed, Katie’s complete avoidance of direct eye contact is a great signifier. Hopelessly, Rodney tries to pile his thoughts into a coherent string.

“Look,” Katie says, “This isn’t working.” But being mentally prepared doesn’t stop the surge of panic Rodney feels arcing through his system. His muscles seize up automatically as his mind scrambles for purchase on something lucid, something grandiose that will stall the inevitable. “You’ve been avoiding me all week,” she says and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, looking up to meet his gaze until all he sees is the pale color of her skin and the blue of her eyes, “and I’d be lying if I pretended I were behaving any better.”

“Katie,” Rodney says, palms sweating. She holds up a hand and shakes her head.

“Just - just let me say this, please.” She shifts focus until she’s staring at the tiled floors, twisting the skin on her fingers to ugly shades of red. “I know this isn’t easy for you - making time with work - but I think, I think if you tried. If _we_ tried, it’d be worth it.” She smiles, her eyes steady, focused, and Rodney’s struck by the sudden perfection that had him first feigning pteridology skills to impress her.

He nods silently, mouth crooked. He’s not sure what he wants it to mean, but she seems to take it as an affirmation. She’d been his ideal once and watching her walk out the door now Rodney wonders when that changed.

\----

“You do not look well,” Rodney slumps haphazardly against the lab table, Radek’s eyes roving over him with a disturbing sort of efficiency. “You have not been eating?” Rodney ignores him, opting to press his suddenly pounding head against the cool metal of Zelenka’s desk. He feels sick and he doesn’t know why; bile thick and sour at the back of his throat. He should feel relieved, light in the face his near failed relationship, but he doesn’t. He feels claustrophobic, trapped, guilty.

“She didn’t break up with me,” he says, zeroing in on the trip click of Zelenka’s fingers as they trail across the keyboard.

“I assume you mean Katie. Is this not good thing?”

“Yes. No. It should be.” Rodney moans, turning his head until the refracted light from the overhead fluorescents blink against his retinas. Radek stops typing, stilling as though he’s deep in thought. Rodney lets the silence curl into the crooks of his body, his own thoughts breaking recklessly as they wash over each other.

“There is nothing wrong with moving on, Rodney,” Radek says eventually. Rodney says nothing in return.

\----

The day passes in relative calm, routine procedures seeming particularly mundane in light of Rodney’s personal issues. His earlier conversation with Katie itches at the edge of his consciousness, pulling him out of his element, and ruining any attempt he makes to get actual work done. Around eleven he calls it quits and gives Zelenka a vague goodbye. Without the focus of work he finds himself consumed by thoughts of Katie, the sensation of drowning cutting clear across his system.

It’s an hour before he realizes he’s been driving aimlessly, searching for a beat-up truck to sidle up against. “I’m completely insane,” he says out loud, rubbing a hand across his eyes. He feels exhausted, muscles weak against the restlessness he can’t seem to pinpoint or alleviate. Mentally he weighs the odds of him just happening across Sheppard, factoring in the distance between John’s practice and Area 51. He has no idea where Sheppard lives, but he uses the café as a breaking point and begins to circle the area.

It takes twenty-three minutes and thirty-five seconds for Rodney to find him, time in which he has managed to fully convince himself that searching for one’s couples therapist with a stalker-like accuracy near midnight is a completely sane venture. He wants to discuss his relationship and Sheppard is a relationship therapist. Rodney is doing exactly what he’s supposed to do, seek out reasonable advice from a professional. He has his shrink on call 24/7 why should Sheppard be any different? Rodney can’t function with the distraction and everyone was losing out by his continued inability to work. This thing with Katie, this thing beyond Katie, needed to be rectified.

The bar sits on a slant, dingy brick overlaid with shadows. There’s a sleekness in the way the neon sign burns it’s letters back into the building, alphabet curves edged pure white. Rodney doesn’t bother to read it, simply notes the smooth shift of it against his skin as he pulls into the parking lot. He’s focused on the truck loitering in a far corner of the pavement. There’s a moment’s hesitation where he debates whether or not the vehicle actually belongs to Sheppard and not to some other cowboy with a complex, but the lure of liquor and chance win out and Rodney pushes into the bar with his chin raised.

He starts to rethink his conviction when he spots a familiar curve of spine pressed into tight black cotton. Sheppard’s hanging idly over the bar, eyes firmly attached to the nearest plasma where fourteen men appear to be beating each other into Astroturf. It’s not until he’s close enough to see the graze of a five o’ clock shadow across John’s jaw that he figures it out, words tumbling out of him as Sheppard looks up, uncoiling from where they’ve been lodged on the back of his tongue since Tuesday. “I don’t think I love my girlfriend.”

John blinks at him slow, licking his lips before motioning the bartender over and ordering Rodney a drink.

They move to a sterilized table in the back, wood blistering under the plastic veneer. Rodney picks at as Sheppard waits for him to talk. He takes a deep breath and runs his palms over the tops of his thighs, chancing a look at Sheppard - who’s quiet and still - before opening his mouth to make sense of all the things he’d rather not say. “I don’t think I love my girlfriend,” he repeats, like it’s a starting point. Sheppard’s eyes slit, lashes a dark rim against his skin. Rodney can’t tell if he’s annoyed or simply weighing the statement to some sort of graph inside his head. His fingers go loose around the neck of his beer bottle and he looks at Rodney straight in the eye.

“Do you think you need to love someone to be in a relationship?” he asks, and Rodney realizes with an immediate clarity that this _isn’t_ what he wanted. Not Sheppard the couples therapist who asks invasive questions in an insipid, detached fashion. He wants John, the idiot who drives a shitty pick-up and uses fluid mechanics to back Superman’s reputation.

“Don’t,” he says, watching Sheppard’s eyes flash as his eyebrow arches, “It’s not - _not this_. I don’t want it like this.”

Now Sheppard does look irritated, face a mix of anxious strain and exhaustion. He’s picking at the slip around his beer, peeling the watered paper from the glass. “Then what do you want, Rodney?”

His voice is low and Rodney breaths in at the familiar flip turn of his stomach. John’s no longer looking at him, shaded by a diffused overhead light. Rodney watches the hitch of his shoulders as he tenses and relaxes, waiting. Rodney can feel his mouth dry out, tongue heavy and thick against his teeth. _You_ , he thinks, before giving in to whatever brought him to this point, twisting to reach across the table and pull John to him with a fistful of worn fabric clutched between his fingers. The kiss is clumsy, angle completely wrong and they click teeth before John’s hand comes up and tugs Rodney’s hair to tilt him and plunge deeper into his mouth. _God, yes_. John tastes like he smells, summer sweet with the bitter taint of sweat, the tang of alcohol a heady buzz beneath all the heat. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Rodney hisses, lips throbbing as he takes in Sheppard - unkempt and wild eyed.

“Car,” John says and Rodney catches a strip of bare skin as he pulls back from the table and throws down a few bills. They trip from the bar in an unorganized fashion. Tangling together as soon as the truck comes into view, the car is cool against Rodney’s back, a rough contrast to John’s hand as he pushes it up and under Rodney’s t-shirt. He’s so goddamn warm and Rodney can’t figure out which part of him he wants to touch first. He wraps his fingers around the crook of John’s elbow, presses his thumb into the crease hard enough to get a phantom heartbeat. “Need to,” John’s nips at his jaw, tongue following the path of his teeth, smoothing over bitten skin.

“Oh,” Rodney says, nodding dumbly at the loss of John’s body. He turns instinctively to open the car door, tugging mindlessly on the handle and slipping inside as John starts the engine with steady hands. He’s mindless in the car ride, hands picking a pattern over his pants until John grabs a hold of his hand and presses his thumb into the hollow of Rodney’s wrist. Rodney studies his fingers, the contrast between Sheppard’s skin and his own, and the searing warmth of John’s flesh.

They don’t make it far into John’s condo, Rodney tucking back into the curve of John’s body as soon as they shut the front door. He finds John’s mouth with his eyes closed, giving into the urge to run his hands over the waistband of John’s low-slung jeans, dipping his hands in to get at John’s ass. Sheppard growls when Rodney pulls at him for friction, and Rodney can feel his erection heavy against his thigh, knows he’s just as hard. There are limits, he thinks when John thrusts up and arches, giving Rodney a clear path up the line of his throat. It’s rough, dark with stubble and sweat and Rodney licks up a strip of it regardless. John whines, body bucking. He frees a hand to palm Rodney through his khakis, curving against the line of Rodney’s zipper. _Too much, too much, too much,_ Rodney drops his head back against the door, tightening his grip on John’s ass.

They aren’t going to make it to the bed Rodney thinks belatedly, noting the doorknob pressed into the small of his back. He nuzzles the space behind John’s ear, closing his eyes as John continues to twist and writhe beneath Rodney’s hands. He finds John’s mouth again before the end, ghosts his lips across John’s cheek and dips into the recesses of his mouth. John swallows his litany of curses, traces new words against his lips, across the curve of his jaw. He feels the burn of blunt nails when he comes, John’s breath a rush of air before he loses any concentration and his knees buckle.

\----

When Rodney wakes the next morning it’s to the long forgotten burn of muscles and a pressing weight on his left. It takes him a moment to figure out where he is, blinking up into an unfamiliar ceiling as the body beside him turns and huffs sleepily. _Oh my god,_ he thinks, tensing. _What the hell was I_ \- he refuses to look over, keeping his eyes firmly trained on the speckled plaster covering Sheppard’s bedroom ceiling. _Sheppard’s ceiling._ Rodney tries not to move, insides seizing up until he feels like the air in his lungs is being pushed out against his will.

The longer he lays there, the more pronounced Sheppard’s breathing becomes and Rodney is practically flinging himself from the bed, piling on clothes haphazardly. He leaves a note as an afterthought; scribbling out a half-assed apology before walking half a block to hail a taxi.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, _fuck, fuck, fuck._

\----

He spends the rest of the week in self-loathing, avoiding the labs and any other base form of communication. Sheppard calls, messages slipping from personable query to ‘ _You dumb hypocritical bastard,_ ’ before he stops calling altogether. Rodney’s inclined to agree with him, but clings to the last shreds of his heterosexuality until Tuesday rolls around and Katie appears on his doorstep. He can’t figure out why she’s there at first, staring out the glass pane alongside his door in confusion until it clicks. _Therapy,_ the thought makes him nauseous and he debates not opening the door, wishing to instead crawl back into bed and let Ringo sleep on his face. “Rodney?”

He takes in his battered socks, woolen and full of holes as well as his wrinkled caffeine molecule t-shirt and striped boxers and realizes he hasn’t shaved since Friday. Coming to the conclusion that there is absolutely no way to make himself look any better in the span of four seconds he opens the door with the proclamation of ‘flu’ on his tongue. Katie hones into his space, feeling his forehead with the back of her palm and Rodney fully appreciates the impromptu nap he took face down on the couch for making him pliant and sleep warm. Katie’s fingers are like ice, thin and bony and Rodney feels a pang for callused hands and slick palms. “We don’t have to go,” she says and Rodney almost takes the out. He’s been hiding for days, coated in guilt and regret, dreams awash in hazel eyes and tan skin. Seeing Katie only makes it worse, the split second decisions he’d made five days prior burning like an ulcer through his skin.

“No,” he says, motioning towards his bedroom, the shower.

Katie nods, smiling worriedly as Rodney makes his way upstairs on clumsy legs. 

He spends an unusual amount of time just standing under the spray. He knows he’s on the crest of something, knows he slipped when he slept with Sheppard and knows he could still pull back. He could call off and go back to bed, go back to the labs, go back to everything he had before and wait for the heat in his veins to dissipate and go numb. “Rodney?” Katie’s voice causes him to flex unconsciously, fumbling for the shampoo.

“Not dead,” he says, hoping his voice is loud enough to reach the other side of the door. The “but close,” is just for him.

Katie isn’t there when he exits the bathroom, the click of her heels echoing from the tile in the kitchen. Rodney relaxes, pulling on the cleanest clothes he can find. He figures it’s best not to look like he’s spent the weekend in the bowels of hell when he’s about to throw himself onto the sacrificial pyre.

The ride to the psychiatry office is quiet; Rodney perched mulishly in the passenger side as Katie drives three miles under the speed limit. His mind is a maelstrom of contradictions, thoughts bouncing back and forth beneath the hollow mutter of _straight, straight, straight._ When the double glass doors come into view Rodney has to mentally still himself, taking a few deep breaths and running a hand over his hair before he gets out of the car. The receptionist greets them with the same plastic smile she’d left them with, tilting her head towards the waiting room chairs and then ignoring them completely.

It’s so disturbingly familiar that Rodney finds himself fidgeting, hands moving restlessly over the same magazines he’d written in the week before. He doesn’t bother to open them, the lure of mutilating the work of his supposed peers less tempting this time around. Katie doesn’t bother to remark on his mood, too lost in her own world of thought. When the receptionist calls to them Rodney practically jumps, snapping his hands back into his lap like he’s been struck. “Dr. McKay? Dr. Brown? Please follow me.” 

_This is it,_ Rodney thinks, thumb finding its way back to worrying at his middle fingers. It’s like being on the edge of a vital discovery, just one that you know is going to go horribly, horribly wrong. Rodney had been on the bad end of plenty of hypotheses, but in the face of his current situation he thinks he’d almost rather lose an actual limb then face the oncoming emotional castration. There’s a surge in his system when Sheppard’s door comes into view, mind screaming _ABORT, ABORT, ABORT_ , as the receptionist turns the doorknob and waves them in. Rodney stops then, watches Katie disappear through the doorway and counts to ten. The mental preparation he’d undergone for this moment was incredibly inept. When he opens his eyes again the receptionist is staring at him, smile twitching. Rodney attempts to shrug nonchalantly but feels it might have come out more like a mini-seizure. Her smile turns sympathetic and she pats him awkwardly before moving away and heading back to her post. _Right, here we go._

Katie is mid-comment when he pushes through the doorway, eyes flying to Sheppard. He’s behind his desk, exuding the same easy confidence he had when they’d first met. Rodney takes five seconds to be mildly confused before he gets pissed. Fine, if Sheppard wants to play that way, he knows the rules to this game, too. “I’m sorry we’re late,” Katie is saying, “Rodney wasn’t feeling well.”

There’s a twitch in John’s features and Rodney knows the first point has been claimed, and it’s not by him. Goddamn Katie in her conversationalist honesty. Why didn’t she just tell Sheppard she’d found him coked out in his boxers, licking Wheaties residue from the kitchen table. This wasn’t going to go well unless he could get her to shut up. “Thankfully Katie was there to take care of me,” he says, patting the top of Katie’s hand and smiling tightly. It’s flimsy at best, but Sheppard doesn’t look at Katie’s reaction, he looks at Rodney and Rodney can see the second the remark hits home. One to one.

“Well,” John says, smiling sweetly, “thank god for therapy sessions or she might never have shown up.” 

That blow was a little below the belt, and Rodney falters, meeting Sheppard’s eyes as he stares Rodney down. Katie, for her part, holds her tongue, confusion apparent but otherwise unnoted. “Yes,” Rodney says, barely keeping the sneer from coloring his tone, “I’ve no idea where we’d be without _therapy._ ” John’s hand curls around the file holding Rodney and Katie’s charts and Rodney knows he’s scored another hit. It’s not nearly as satisfying as he wants it to be, revenge tainted by the want he still feels towards Sheppard. There’s a small part of him desperately clawing at the surface and he beats it down before it shows. The tension in the room is palpable, Katie’s eyes flicking from Rodney to Sheppard and back. Rodney can empathize, it’s the not knowing. The being able to understand that there’s something going on and not being able to grasp what it is, its there - she just can’t get it to click into focus.

John holds Rodney’s gaze for a minute before turning on him and tossing the file he’d held onto his desk. “So, how were things last week in regards to your communication?” _Non-existent_ , Rodney thinks, and knows that Sheppard knows this too.

“Things,” Katie says, looking to Rodney for guidance; none of which he gives, “things were rocky at first but I think we came to an impasse that forced us to make a decision. We’re both willing to try and I think that’s what’s most important.” Sheppard’s mask slips and Rodney feels color stain his cheeks. He didn’t want Sheppard to know this.

“Extremely important,” John says, looking directly at Rodney. “Most relationships don’t stand a chance if one of the partners is unwilling to try.”

“Stop.” Rodney says, standing up, the inanity of the entire situation finally too much for him to bear. He’s tired of the game now, tired of stepping around each other without actually saying what they mean; acting like neither of them gives a shit. He knows it’s not true, knows that Sheppard showed up for the same reason he did. Unless he was a masochist, there was no way he’d have kept the appointment. He had to think that he and Rodney had something, that they _have_ something.

“Rodney,” Katie says, obviously startled. She’s got her hand out like she wants to pull him down, but knows he won’t follow.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but it’s to John, “I panicked. I -”

“Rodney what are you talking about?” Katie’s voice is tinged with frustration and he can’t blame her, she’d have to be a moron not to catch the in-between dialogue battering back and forth across the room. It’s not fair to her; it was never fair to her. It takes a lot for Rodney to look at her, the guilt a bitter twinge amidst the desperation he feels to fix everything else. 

“I slept with him,” he says, blunt and final like he always is. Katie looks bewildered, face going from slack to pinched in a matter of seconds. Rodney can tell the moment realization hits and wishes more than anything he wasn’t around to see it - that he hadn’t been the one to cause it. Katie draws herself up, gathering her things quietly with her shoulders tight.

“Jesus Christ, Rodney,” John swears low, moving from his own chair, “Katie -”

“She deserves to know!” 

“Stop it,” Katie’s voice is soft, steady, “just stop. This whole time you two have been -”

“It wasn’t -”

“Don’t, Rodney. Don’t lie to me. I knew something was going on. I knew it and still. I thought you were just - but this.” She shakes her head, self-deprecating, “You should have told me.” Rodney opens his mouth, clenches his hands helplessly as he fumbles for the proper wording. Nothing he said would make it better and he wasn’t well practiced in futility. An experiment failed you fixed it or moved on. This - this he couldn’t fix, not completely and leaving it wasn’t an option. “Fuck you, Rodney.” She says, not even bothering to look at Sheppard as she leaves the room, taking what’s left of Rodney’s dignity with her.

“You’re a jackass,” John says and Rodney feels his anger spark in reflex.

“I’m a jackass? _I’m a jackass?_ Because sleeping with your patients is part of any moral practice. Tell me, John, exactly what number am I in the -” John’s fist hits his face before he can finish and Rodney blearily curses him for taking the first punch as the taste of copper fills his mouth. He ratchets back with arms and elbows, taking John around the waist and pulling him to the floor.

“I never forced you to sleep with me, McKay,” John hisses, digging his nails into Rodney’s shoulders as he tries to push him off. Rodney has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s got more bulk than John and he knows the schoolyard bullies were always the biggest; his weight should be enough to keep Sheppard down. He curls a fist around John’s hip, other hand wrapping around his bicep. Sheppard struggles viciously, body twisting in vain attempts to buck Rodney off. They’ve knocked over most of the things on John’s desk through mere vibration, and Rodney is pretty sure he broke one of John’s chairs while taking him down. It probably won’t be long until the receptionist or someone else walks in and calls the cops to pick Rodney up for assault. “Don’t project your issues,” John breathes out, stilling completely before bringing a knee up to knock the wind from Rodney’s lungs, “I wasn’t the one that walked out.”

Rodney wheezes, hands fisting the floor in a hopeless fashion. John rolls out from under him but doesn’t bother to get up, his own breathing shaky at best. “Dr. Sheppard, are you- ?” He waves the receptionist off before she fully gets her head around the door, turning to look at Rodney who’s laying face first in the carpet.

“I don’t fuck my patients, McKay,” John says but there’s no heat behind it, “contrary to whatever you think about me.” He moves to get up and Rodney makes a hapless grab for his ankle, fingers curling beneath the fabric of his pants until he reaches skin. Warm, still warm.

“I know,” he says after a bit, voice small and slightly muffled, “and I never thought - I didn’t think - I didn’t think that.” He turns so he can look up, blinking until John’s face comes into focus and he can see the frown creasing his features. “I’ve messed up everything, haven’t I?” Rodney’s insides feel mashed together, pressed tight enough to force the air from his lungs. He feels exposed, the urge to curl into himself almost overpowering. He tightens his grip on John’s ankle instead and waits for a change in his features. John’s eyes slit, concentrating on Rodney’s face before he drops his gaze, rubs a hand across his eyes and crouches.

“Yeah, you fucked up,” he takes hold of the hand Rodney has wrapped around his ankle, and Rodney feels his stomach drop. He doesn’t move though, “but I should have seen it coming,” simply lingering until Rodney’s warmed by the shared heat.

“I thought I was straight,” Rodney supplies, relief flushing through his system as John lips quirk up.

“I know.”

“I’m not though, not really.” John’s grin gets a little wider and Rodney feels the worry evaporate, that acidic feeling in his stomach clear. There’s still so much he needs to say, to explain to both John and to Katie, but for now its okay. This is okay.

“Yeah, I know that, too.”

\---- _3 months later_ \----

Rodney’s been pressed into the space between Sheppard’s sofa and coffee table for over an hour, writing equations into a overcrowded notebook and eating leftover Chinese directly from the carton. John’s flitted in and out of the room, picking up pieces of discarded clothing, wads of paper Rodney’s thrown in aggravation, and made numerous asinine comments on whatever show Rodney’s tuned into. Half of Rodney’s things have migrated into John’s condo, strewn and abandoned when Rodney spends the night; which has become more and more of a frequent occurrence.

“Rodney?” There’s a sock clad foot pressing hard into his thigh, prodding him to attention as he stares at the television. “You’re muttering, McKay.” Rodney looks up, mouth slightly ajar as John holds out a drink and sidles next to him.

“I don’t believe this,” he says, motioning to the piece of paper in his hands. 

“What is it?” John asks, propping his chin on Rodney’s shoulder.

“It’s Katie, she’s moving to California.” He can practically feel the lift of Sheppard’s eyebrow, knows the exact look he’s giving by the way his head tilts against Rodney’s skin.

“S’good surfing,” he mutters, still not grasping the point.

“Yes I’m sure that was her first consideration.” He waves his arms, jarring John from his position, “She’s going to film a television show - on plants.” John wrinkles his nose, taking the letter from Rodney’s fingers and putting it on the coffee table away from his direct line of sight. He pulls Rodney into his lap, curling his fingers under the crook of his elbow and across his arm.

“A good work ethic is nothing to be ashamed of, McKay.”

“ _Plants._ ” Rodney hisses, and John smiles into his skin.

**The End**


End file.
